Prayer Pillow
Candles lit.
We sit.
I write poems.
She paints.
We talk about family.
Linseed oil and turpentine.
Earlier, she reads the Torah.
Leviticus, still the same, admonishes
warnings and orders.
Her God is a mean one.
Used to be my God too.
It gets darker.
This Sabbath, we talk about the past.
Verbs and nouns, punctuation.
We don’t solve any problems.
Things get muddier, when before
they were clear.
She paints in green oils,
I wear a green cardigan.
Pot wafts on the air.
I drink water.
There are revelations,
but not from me.
Always the last to share.
© Anne Westlund
prompt: write a night
poem
No comments:
Post a Comment